Love Hurts

He looks very cute and innocent, I know.
Don't let him fool you.

I know I haven’t written much about Baby Oren (or as I like to call him, Sir Poopsalot. Or Baby Boo Boo. Or Smooshers McDuff. I really call him everything BUT his actual name).

Oren is the “Clifford the Big Red Dog” of babies. He’s a very adorable, huggable, smooshable, GARGANTUAN child. He’s only four and a half months old, weighs about 150 pounds, and is about 17 feet tall. He already fits into my husband’s clothing.

Yesterday, my dentist’s assistant asked if she could hold Oren (he was flirting with her). Not two minutes had passed before she handed him right back to me, telling me she had to go set up a new appointment with her chiropractor. She then hobbled away, groaning, with her hands supporting her lower back.

He’s big.

Much like Clifford the Big Red Dog, Oren has the best of intentions. He simply wants to love and be loved. But because he is such a huge, strong boy (with rather unrefined motor skills), his displays of affection generally turn into unintentional displays of physical abuse.

One of Oren’s favorite pastimes is gnawing on my chin like it is a chew toy (oh yes, I forgot to mention he is already teething. Actually, I am pretty certain he came out of my womb teething). It starts out innocent enough, with Oren just trying to tongue kiss my face (strangers at the playground think it looks so adorable). But soon the kissing turns into full throttle chewing, as Oren clenches down with his baby jaw and waves his head back and forth like he is trying to rip my chin off my face (strangers at the playground start to think this might not be so adorable after all).

Oren has given me quite a few chin hickeys. Unfortunately, they are not very becoming, and kind of hard to disguise (I can’t exactly wrap a tiny scarf around my chin). I just try to ignore my co-workers staring at my face, wondering what kind of kinky games my husband and I get into once the kids are asleep.

Oh. Then there is the very random, very thrilling, middle-of-the-night nose punching thing.

Although I had truly intended NOT to co-sleep with Oren, as I had with Emmy, I’ve ended up sleeping in bed with him by my side, every night. For the most part, it works out well, and allows me to do night feedings without having to keep getting up out of bed (yes, I am lazy. Especially at 2 in the morning). It also allows me the distinct pleasure of being punched repeatedly in the nose by my son. I’ll be sleeping peacefully, dreaming of bucolic country meadows and rainbows and dancing fairies, when WHAM! Baby Boo Boo lays the smackdown on my face.

And then he starts kicking me. Repeatedly. Right in my belly, by my c-section scar.

I’m pretty sure it’s just his way of making sure I am still lying next to him.

So now, in addition to “hickey chin,” I also have “fight club nose” and a black and blue tummy.

I should also mention Oren’s miraculous ever-growing fingernails. I swear to you, I clip my baby boy’s nails on an every-other day basis, thinking that perhaps it will keep his talons in check. But its not enough. Oren is still able to scratch “I Love Mama” or “This is great mom, but I would really love a prime rib” on my forearm as I breastfeed him.

Speaking of breastfeeding, have I mentioned Oren is teething? I have. Have I mentioned that I feel like I am in grave danger every time I breastfeed him? I do. I watch his face very carefully, waiting for that exact moment where his mouth transitions from “cute sucky-milk” mode to “Hannibal Lecter” mode. Then I say “no biting,” in a gentle but firm tone, and Smooshers McDuff smiles back at me in a “this is a fun game, mama!” way. I try to explain to him that it is not a game. He smiles back at me in a “I’m four months old and have no idea what you are saying, but I’m sure it’s funny” kind of a way. And then he bites down.

Baby Boo Boo also seems to thoroughly enjoy pulling my hair, pinching my neck, and sticking his thumb in my eyeball. Waaaay into my eyeball. Super fun times.

So next time you see me, if I am wearing a ski mask, and a helmet and breastplate, and perhaps holding a sword and shield, I’m not trying out a new “look”. It’s just that I have a BIG baby boy who loves me very, very much.

I’m Just Gonna Ride it Out

You know those crazy folks who, despite knowing well in advance that some sort of natural disaster is about to completely LEVEL their home, insist upon staying put rather than getting the heck out of dodge? They’re the ones who you overhear telling news reporters “I’m just gonna batten down the hatches and ride it out,” while everyone else is packing up their precious belongings and running for the hills, screaming. I’m not sure if these crazies are on a suicide mission, or if they are under the impression that the hurricane/tornado/volcano/typhoon is going to miraculously stop at THEIR door and go “whoops! Can’t ruin this guy’s house!” I hate to pass judgement on complete strangers, but I always have to resist the urge to throw something at my television set whenever one of these loonies is being interviewed pre-storm.

But then, this past week, I WAS one of those stupid people. I ignored the all-too-obvious signs that danger lay ahead. I kept saying to myself, “I’m just gonna ride it out. How bad could it be?”

First sign of the natural disaster I like to call “Hurricane Emmy”? My daughter started sticking her thumb and fingers wayyy back in her mouth, gnawing on them like they were meaty, juicy ribs. Her poor little fingers looked like chewed up, shriveled hot dogs, and she didn’t care. DANGER! DANGER!

Second sign? Em started drooling like a rabid dog, all over her clothing, her chin, her toys, our furniture, my face… if it was in our house, it was covered in teething drool. WWWOOOOoooooooooowww WWWOOOOOOoooooowwwww (that’s my impression of an emergency siren)!

In light of the warnings that molar teething clearly lay ahead, I probably should have created an evacuation plan. I should have packed my bags and lied to my husband, telling him that I suddenly had to take a business trip to some far away island (if you knew my line of work, you would understand that it would be very difficult for me to make this lie believable, but I should have at least TRIED). OR I should have dug myself a bunker in the backyard, and filled it with all the necessary provisions for a few days of refuge (a blanket, my laptop, and dark chocolate). That way I could have at least been safe from harm.

But, no. I did none of these things. I chose instead to be a good and loyal mommy, and just “ride it out”.

And so this weekend happened. And I, being the crazy loon that I am, stood my ground as my daughter slowly but surely transformed into a howling, crying, temper-tantrum-throwing, category five “Hurricane Emmy”. I did everything in my power to keep Hurricane Emmy at bay. I fed her Tylenol. I distracted her with fun activities, like a trip to a children’s expo (how I managed to make it through that madhouse without losing my daughter or being trampled on is a complete miracle) and a trip to the playground. I fed her frozen bagels. In desperation, I almost bought her rawhide to chew on (once, while shopping at the grocery store, a random woman came up to me, observing that Emmy was teething. She told me that if I was a decent mother, I would buy my daughter rawhide to chew on, claiming that it was the only cure-all for her teething pain. I of course ran home to my husband and told him of this suggestion, who then googled “rawhide teething pain” and advised that the nice opinionated lady was full of crap).

Despite my efforts, the nights were still sleepless and restless, with random bursts of high pitched screaming, and the days were full of cantankerous, crabby, and clingy behavior. There were moments of calm and happiness, of course, where the hurricane winds would die down and we could all breathe. But those moments were few and far between, and most of the weekend was, to put it mildly, a topsy-turvy, tumultuous toddler tempest.

So here I am. It’s Monday. I walked into my office this morning, feeling like a tattered and tangled survivor, kind of hoping nobody would ask me about my weekend. I’m afraid if they do, I might lose it and start bawling uncontrollably, despite my strict “no crying in the workplace” policy. I’ve decided the best thing I can do, when co-workers ask what I did to relax and have fun, is to simply respond “I rode it out.”

Just for the record, I know that "Hurricane Emmy" is NOTHING compared to an actual, real-life natural disaster. I really do. I honestly don't mean to make mountains out of mole hills (or mountains out of molars, as the case may be). But I'm exhausted and delirious, and being dramatic is about the only thing I can do well at this point.

So forgive me, but when I get home this afternoon, I’m gonna build myself a bunker and/or buy myself a ticket to a faraway island. Cause, holy smokes, folks, we’ve still got four more big old teeth waiting to erupt.